Bony - 02 - Sands of Windee Read online

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  A Squatter at Home

  JEFF STANTON was working at his own particular table in the Windee office on the morning Bony paid his visit to Mount Lion. Spread before him was a large-scale map of Windee Station, with every paddock named thereon, every well and dam and natural water-hole. The map was affixed to a drawing-board, and in it were stuck two-colour pins and miniature white flags bearing black numbers. From data supplied him every evening by his overseer at Nullawil and his lonely boundary-riders, he could tell at a glance the condition of the natural feed in a paddock, the supply of water, and the number and classification of the sheep within its five-wire fences. The map served the squatter as other maps serve a military commander.

  A sheep-run of over a million and a quarter acres is not exactly a farm, and the well-being of seventy thousand sheep calls for con­stant attention and thorough experience, for, whilst a man can go bankrupt in a year or two through bad farming, it is possible for a squatter to fail in one month when drought is beginning to grip the country and the water supplies are failing. Allow sheep to remain—say three thousand—in a paddock when a hot sun has sucked up what has been considered a week’s supply of water in a dam, and, because those sheep have become used to a drink every day, they will all have perished within a week. And wow! there goes four thousand pounds.

  Now and then Jeff Stanton scribbled a note on a sheet of fools­cap. A flock of four thousand sheep in such or such a paddock will have to be yarded—two thousand drafted off and put into another paddock where the water supply is greater. From yet another paddock the sheep will have to be removed to an empty paddock, and these for three days shepherded near the well till they have learned to find their way to the water without being driven.

  Such decisions were taken at these times only at the last minute that permitted a margin of safety, for, so soon as the sheep were concentrated into a comparatively small number of paddocks having abundance of water, the increased number would the more quickly eat down the available feed, which would not be replen­ished until the rain came. If as much thought were given, when transferring the unemployed of Great Britain to the Dominions, as a successful squatter is obliged to give to his flocks, the British Empire would be far more prosperous than it is.

  Here and there over Jeff Stanton’s map were placed tiny red flags. There were five of these flags, and they indicated the dams and wells at which the rabbits were watering in force. Observations have shown that forty rabbits will drink one gallon of water when there is no green feed for them to subsist on. It will be understood, therefore, that when two thousand rabbits pay a nightly visit to an open dam, or water-trough supplied by a well, the water supply for the sheep will be affected. Whilst such a drain on a well that is fed by an underground stream is a matter for consideration, such a drain on a surface dam with its limited bulk is of vital con­sequence, for the nightly presence of a vast number of drinking rabbits means that the water of the dam will become far more quickly exhausted than if it were taken by sheep only.

  Stanton picked up the telephone on his desk and gave two long rings—for Nullawil, since there were half a dozen boundary-riders’ huts connected by the same line. Then: “Good day, Mrs Foster! Put me through, please, to Carr’s Tank. Very warm this morning.”

  “It is, Mr Stanton,” came the feminine voice of the bride, oblivious of Stanton’s objection to “mistering”. “Our thermometer is up to ninety-eight already.”

  “You’re lucky. Ours registers just a hundred. … Yes, all right!”

  Another wait followed while Jeff restudied his map. Then came the pleasant drawl of Hugh Trench.

  “Good day, Dash! How’s things out there?” inquired the squatter.

  “We have almost finished for the time being,” came the reply.

  “Good! How many have you got?”

  “Not quite seven thousand. We have cleaned up all the ’roos.”

  “Humph! Well, look here, Dash. I’m told the rabbits are water­ing in millions at the Frenchman. Will you go along there as soon as you can, say to-morrow?”

  Dash demurred. “Can’t very well. You see, we have three wool-packs ready for dispatching, and it won’t do the skins any good to keep them. They will lose weight.”

  “I’ll send a truck out this afternoon,” Stanton countered. “You could load it up this evening, and the driver could come back to-morrow and take ’em into Broken Hill. I’ve got to send a truck to the Hill for iron. How will that do?”

  “That will suit us. There is no netting at the Frenchman, is there?”

  Stanton pondered. “No,” he said.

  “Well, what about sending out about four hundred yards? The driver could drop it when he reaches the branch track to the Frenchman, and it would save us the time rolling up the netting in use here. Besides, in a month’s time there will be a fresh mob of rabbits drinking here, and we can come back.”

  “Good-oh! I’ll do that,” Jeff agreed. “And you’ll go to the Frenchman to-morrow?”

  “Yes. It’s keeping dry, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but we are not feeling the pinch yet. Ned tells me that the feed your way is knee-high and dry as tinder. It’ll be a good year for a fire. Dry thunder-storms now will be a worry.”

  “We may be lucky,” Dash pointed out. For four seconds he was silent, then: “I shall be in at the homestead on Christmas Day. You will remember that this Christmas marks the end of the pro­bation period.”

  “Does it?” asked Stanton slowly.

  “You know it does. I’ve kept my word made to you nearly two years ago. You cannot say I haven’t proved myself. Jacob didn’t do more in his seven years than I’ve done in my two.”

  “I’m not arguing the point!” the old man suddenly roared, causing Mr Roberts to mar his ledger with a blot of ink. “My word’s my bond. I said you could speak again in two years’ time, if you were of the same mind, and proved yourself a man by roughing it during that time as I had to rough it when I was your age. Damn it, I’m not growling! Come in on Christmas Eve, and do your damnedest first thing Christmas morning.”

  “All right!” Dash cut in, happy laughter in his voice. “I think you and I will get on all right.”

  “Get on all right?” Stanton snorted. “Don’t I get on with anyone all right? Why, I haven’t sacked a man these last twelve years. But don’t you be too cocksure. It takes two to start a lifelong argument, remember.”

  “It does. But—but—it will be damned hard if I come a cropper.”

  “Well, well!” Stanton said more gently. He waited, but evidently Dash had broken the connection, for he did not speak again. For a long while the squatter sat and smoked, and looked vacantly down on the map. He did not see Mr Roberts close his ledger, go over to the typewriter-table and begin to type letters, nor did he hear the clacking of the machine until half an hour later, when, the book-keeper having finished, the silence brought him out of his reverie. Then he looked at the clock hanging on the wall. It was a quarter to twelve.

  “Put me through to Bumpus,” he requested abruptly.

  Three minutes later he heard the publican’s voice.

  “Has Ron reached town yet?” Jeff asked.

  “He came in an hour and a half ago.”

  “Is he leaning up against your bar?”

  “No, he’s up at Hugo’s.”

  “Is Bony drunk yet?”

  “Not him. He went over to the Padre’s quarters some time ago, but the sergeant called him into his office.”

  “Oh, what’s he done?”

  “Nothink that I knows of.”

  “Been there long?”

  “He ain’t left yet, to my knowledge, which ain’t saying he ain’t left.”

  “Well, well, it’s none of our business, Bumpus. Don’t you let either of ’em get drunk. I want ’em back here to-day. Send out a dozen of port, will you?”

  “Good-oh, Jeff!”

  Once more the old man fell into a reverie. He wondered.
He had wondered a lot about Bony ever since Dash had mentioned casually over the telephone that Ned remembered Bony as being a success­ful police-tracker. Why was Bony in New South Wales? A half-caste so seldom leaves his native State, and rarely the district where he was born. Bony’s long interview with Sergeant Morris seemed significant.

  He was still thinking of Bony when the station lunch-gong sounded, and on Mr Roberts saying something about the heat it took a mental effort to banish Bony and make a suitable reply.

  Together the two men walked to the bath-room, the young man erect and soldierly in movement, the squatter lithe yet strangely sluggish, as though he felt momentarily the onset of old age. In the dining-room they found Marion, cool and lovely, awaiting them. Mrs Poulton was pouring out tea at a separate table, and when she had set the cups before them she, too, became seated.

  “I shall be glad when Christmas is over,” she exclaimed, fanning herself with a handkerchief. “I always think it is so much hotter before Christmas than after.”

  “It is hotter after Christmas, but by January our blood has thinned and we feel the heat less.”

  “I suppose you are right, Jeff,” she said in her cheerful way. “We should be thankful to be living in a large cool house instead of one of those dog-kennels you call boundary-riders’ huts.”

  “It is surprising what you can get used to,” he said grimly. “In my youth I lived in an affair which was no better than a black-fellow’s humpy. Anyway, my lads are better housed than the majority.” With that Jeff relapsed into silence. An unaccountable foreboding was pressing on his mind, but he put the feeling down to a touch of liver. Mr Roberts and Marion started to talk books, a subject that served throughout the meal.

  Afterwards Stanton passed out through the wide-open french windows to the cool, blind-shaded veranda, where he sank into a wickedly luxurious lounge-chair and proceeded to roll a cigarette. He was not thinking of Bony now, but of his daughter. He was still thinking of her when she came and sat on the arm of his chair, saying:

  “Will Jeff be here to-day, Dad?”

  “No. He has to move sheep out of Whittocks into Deep Bend. By the way, I am sending a truck to Broken Hill to-morrow. If there is anything special you want for Christmas, send in your order.”

  “Very well, Dad,” she said, smiling softly. “Christmas is a long time coming. I think I will buy you a cigarette-making machine. That one you are now smoking looks like a camel in a fit.”

  Stanton laughed ruefully. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to make me a handsomer one,” he said. “Christmas is not so far away, and afterwards you may not have the time to make me cigarettes.”

  “Why not?” Deft fingers were busy at cigarette-making.

  “Because Dash will be here on Christmas Day.”

  For quite a little time Marion gazed searchingly at her father. “You think he has not forgotten or changed his mind?”

  “I know that he has not forgotten and that he has not changed his mind. Have you?”

  Marion’s dark eyes closed for a second. When they opened they were like stars.

  “How could I forget when I have been counting the days?” A blush dyed her cheeks. Slipping off the chair-arm she stood look­ing into his grim, life-scarred face, and added: “You are a hard man in some ways, Dad, but you’re a wise man. I’ve come to see that.” Then she fled.

  Jeff Stanton sat on the veranda until Ron with his passengers arrived. He watched the truck pull up before the house-gate, and when he saw a lady descend he leaned forward in his chair and stared. And in the flight of a few seconds Jeff’s face was drained of its colour, and his eyes became glassy with fear.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Stolen Bride

  THE DAYS that followed Bony’s visit to Mount Lion provided much food for thought. The first stage of the case was almost complete, but not quite.

  Proof that Marks was dead constituted the first stage. The nature of the silver plate was vouched for by Sir Alfred Worthington, but as evidence of Marks’s death it was not absolutely conclusive. Assuming that further evidence was obtained which would emphatically establish that Marks was dead, the finger of fate steadily pointed to Dot and Dash as the murderers, for not only was Marks’s money discovered buried in the fireplace of the part­ners’ camp, but also the kangaroos shot by Dot had been burned where had been discovered a boot-sprig, suggesting that a human body had been disposed of by burning as well as those of the kangaroos.

  As the case now stood Bony was just short of sufficient evidence to prove that Marks was dead. Nor did he think he was justified in arresting the partners on suspicion of murder, although they could be arrested for having concealed Marks’s money. On that ground he would have ordered their arrest had it not been for the fact that the man seen by Ludbi fighting Marks and revealed through Moongalliti by Illawalli was neither Dash nor Dot.

  The coming of Mrs Thomas had disarranged the threads the half-caste was disentangling so laboriously. Certain facts regarding her supplied by Headquarters indicated that Marks was not killed for his money. Now had arisen a suspicion that the motive of the crime was far deeper than the lust for material gain—if Jeffrey Stanton had been christened Joseph and his father’s surname was North.

  In her youth Mrs Thomas had figured in a romance that had gained for her much newspaper publicity, as well as the deep interest of the police. This romance had occurred forty years before. Mrs Thomas’s maiden name was Green, and she was the daughter of a small selector who lived a few miles out of Louth, on the River Darling. At the age of eighteen Rose Green was a very pretty girl, and, as was natural, was much sought after by the young men of the district. Her favours apparently were bestowed about equally on Joseph North, a young but prosperous boss-drover, and Thomas Thomas, who owned a neighbouring selection. Of these two young men the girl’s parents preferred the latter.

  The parental preference may have decided Rose Green eventually to give her hand to Joseph North, for she was a wilful girl, and in the opinion of that time considered bold. She promised to marry North when he returned from a droving trip that was expected to last seven weeks, and before he left he bought a plot of land in Louth and made arrangements with a Wilcannia builder to erect a wooden house.

  North having gone off on his trip with six thousand sheep, the Greens brought pressure to bear on the daughter in favour of Thomas Thomas. Rose Green at last surrendered, and the arrange­ments for the wedding were hastened to ensure that when North returned it would be too late for the girl to change her mind again. It was too late, even though North arrived back a week earlier than was expected.

  It appears that he knew nothing of his sweetheart’s altered pro­gramme until he entered the hotel at Louth to pay off his men and groom himself before rushing to his adored one. On that same day Rose Green was married to Thomas Thomas. North entered Louth precisely one hour after the bridal-party left the township for the wedding-breakfast at the bride’s former home.

  Besides the bride and groom there were seated at that breakfast no fewer than fourteen people. It was the last day of June, and, the weather being cold, the feast was eaten in the main room of the house. The room was crowded. The chatter of the guests was enlivened by a thirty-six-gallon cask of beer set on a stand in a corner. It was a day of days. Everyone was exhilarated, especially the men. And then in upon them walked Joseph North holding in each hand a nickel-plated man-size revolver.

  In appearance North was the superior of the bridegroom. He wore a navy-blue serge suit of the then fashionable cut. On his feet were tan shoes, and on his head a black bowler hat. In the lapel of his coat was a single white rose. Apparently he would have appeared thus had he actually led Rose Green to the altar.

  Filling in the blanks, Bony easily visualized the scene that followed. The half-caste’s sympathies were entirely with Joseph North, then and throughout. North threatened to shoot any person there who attempted to rise from his or her seat. Doubtless the young man’s facial expression was ext
remely earnest, for not one disobeyed him, not even Thomas Thomas himself when he was minutely instructed in the task of binding his guests to their chairs with lengths of rope, undoubtedly brought there by the jilted North. Afterwards he had the unique experience of being him­self bound to a chair by his bride of an hour.

  “I think you will be fairly secure for some time,” North told them in general. To the girl’s mother he said: “You tricked me, didn’t you? You knew that I was making a home for Rose, yet you bullied her into marrying Thomas. Had Rose been given a fair chance to decide between me and Thomas, and she had chosen Thomas, I’d have said nothing. But no, not only did you bully her into marrying Thomas, but you stopped word reaching me, and it was only because I got through my contract a week ahead that I got back to Louth to-day.

  “It was lucky for me that I did get back, for now Rose is as much mine as ever she was. A few words spoken by a parson don’t amount to much. I’m wearing my bridegroom’s clothes, and I’m going to be Rose’s bridegroom. She is going away with me as my bride. Rosie, get your hat and put on a pair of riding-boots.”

  “I won’t! You must think I’m mad,” objected the bride.

  “All right, come as you are, then!”

  Amid a babel of lurid language from the men and shrill invective from the women, Rose Green began to cry. Yet the hubbub and the tears had no effect on Joseph North. He took the girl by the arm and led her out of the house dressed in her wedding finery and without hat or coat. Afterwards the listening guests heard the thudding of horses’ hoofs growing fainter and fainter, and when the first of them freed himself and hastily freed the others, they rushed out to see no sign of North or the bride.

  The police were informed. Search-parties were organized. Every station homestead in the State was frantically telephoned for news. All Australia was thrilled and delighted by the story, which was headlined “The Stolen Bride”.